


Spectacular Bodies

by AvaRosier



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Restoration Corollary, Steve discovers kinks he didn't know he had, bisexual sharon carter, references to past natsharon, some angst but then lots of smut in chapter two and a happy ending, succubus au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 04:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7154249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaRosier/pseuds/AvaRosier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sharon would like Natasha to know that, no, her situational awareness has not gone to shit, because within a second of sitting down, she realizes she knows the man sitting next to her. But any thoughts of gloating to Natasha are moot because Sharon then realizes the whole night has been a chess game masterminded by Natasha herself, since she'd recommended the very bar she had obviously known Steve Rogers would be hanging out at.</p><p>“Of all the gin joints in all of DC,” Sharon quotes with a wry smile, angling her body to face his.</p><p>“She just had to walk into mine. And she can quote <i>Casablanca</i>. I'm impressed,” Steve says, inclining his head and raising his glass of beer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set several months after TWS but before the standalone Black Widow film I've headcanoned in the Restoration Corollary 'verse. Smut's really in the second chapter, which will go up this weekend. It was getting a bit long.

 

By the time she pitches the second broken vibrator across her bedroom, Sharon is ready to concede that maybe she has finally been outwitted by her vagina.

  
  


It's not that she hates what she is, but being a succubus can be so damned  _inconvenient_. Being sat down when she was sixteen and being told that, like her mother and grandmother before her, she would have the ability to feed off of the metaphysical energy (her mother, the scientist's words), wasn't exactly what a self-conscious teenage girl with an intense need for control wanted to hear. She didn't start exhibiting symptoms for another few years, but Mom and Babette had believed in the adage: 'forewarned is forearmed'.

  
  


After all, you don't want to be horny as fuck, start feeling weird cramps, then nearly starve to death because you didn't know you needed to feed, or how.

  
  


The first thing Sharon had done, after doing research into human folklore on the topic, was reject the term 'succubus' because it was based on the latin 'succubare' (to lie under) and was specifically meant for the female of the species. Even at sixteen, with barely any sexual experience under her belt, Sharon had suspected she might not want to be on the bottom, figuratively speaking. She certainly didn't want to be put into a narrow, gender-specific category. Some nosing around on internet message boards gave her the term 'cubus' or 'cubi', which teenage Sharon found pleased her.

  
  


As it was, she didn't start coming into her 'cubi-hood', such as it were, until she was about nineteen, but she had only been properly feeding off sexual energy for the past five years. Which was probably an evolutionary blessing, given how underdeveloped teenage brains could be until roughly the age of twenty-five.

  
  


  
  


Sharon absolutely had not wanted anyone at the academy or at work to find out about this facet of herself. Hell, enough of her fellow male agents had an easy enough time demonizing her, especially accusing her of rising through the ranks  _too_  quickly, and that was even when they didn't know about Aunt Peggy. Sharon just couldn't help it if she was a better shot, a more competent fighter, and a cleverer agent than the majority of those douchebags. But she'd made it through training and as long as she was diligent about feeding, this part of her nature did not interfere with her work.

  
  


  
  


As she lies sprawled inelegantly across her bed, staring at the ceiling, Sharon tries to think about the last time she'd gotten a well and thorough fucking. Had that been with Natasha, after the mission in Algeria? Shit, that had been nearly five months ago. She wasn't counting the lackluster experience she'd had with that accountant that barely charged her batteries, the sex had been  _that_ unsatisfactory. Sure, it'd been kind of fun...especially when  _she_  got  _herself_ off.

  
  


Normally, she's better about this type of self-maintenance, but in her defense, she'd been busy watching Steve Rogers' back, going on the run with him, nearly getting killed by the Winter Soldier (formerly known as Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes), and watching as the agency her great-aunt fought to found went down in literal flames because it had been thoroughly infiltrated by  _fucking Nazis_ -

  
  


Point is, Sharon has been busy.

  
  


Maybe it's a matter of quality, not quantity, that's putting her off?

  
  


Her and Nat, that's pretty much a FWB thing, more Nat's choice than Sharon's own. Even though they were firmly friends and not romantic partners, Nat was the only person affiliated with her work that knew what she was and sometimes they were the only people they trusted enough to be vulnerable in front of during sex. There were a few other one-night stands, mostly Tinder dates after meeting for drinks so if they felt weird after the sex, they'd chalk it up to the alcohol...the last actual relationship she'd had was with Raymond, the owner of one of her favorite burger pubs in D.C. But he hadn't known what she was, and that, on top of the long absences, and secrets due her profession, had taken its toll on the relationship. The discounted burgers had been nice, though.

  
  


Basically, her sex life could be much, much better if she would just go out there and try. But the thought of going out and finding that great sex just seems exhausting. She's going to have to make the effort herself, because she doesn't exactly have a harem, or even one person on standby. Hitting up a few bars would be cheaper than replacing those vibrators, at this rate.

  
  


She feels like Charlotte in that one scene from Sex and the City, the one where she's screaming “ _damn it, I just really wanna be fucked, you know? Just really fucked!_ ” Sharon really wants to be fucked, and she wants it to be amazing. It would be so much easier if she would just take her grandma's advice and acquire a few casual partners. Multiple bodies were ideal to prevent long-term over-drainage, according to Babette. A succubus who gets laid on the regular was pretty much the embodiment of the hashtag #cleared my pores and watered my crops. Being well fed leads to optimal health and vitality, increased energy, and something about harmonic resonance that emanates from within...

  
  


(Sharon's grandma had come into her cubi-hood in the heyday of the sixties. She's still very much a hippie at heart, what with her crystals and her naked orgies in the woods.)

  
  


And have more subpar sex? No thanks. Tinder would be even worse, just the thought makes her shudder. Using her fingers or her pillows to jill off isn't satisfying her and once you've gotten to the point that you're watching shitty porn, you're pretty desperate. She should. She should just go out and find someone and see if they were down for a night of straight-up _fucking_. No thinking, just doing. If she could drag her ass out of bed at four fucking thirty to go for a run, she could go out and get some.

  
  


Sharon groans and flings herself off her bed, bare-assed but still in her white undershirt, stalking out into the hallway towards the kitchen. She's gonna need a few shots of vodka before she gets trussed up like a prize pig at the county fair. Yanking open the freezer door, a cursory look into the contents yields a suspicious lack of vodka bottle. Sighing, Sharon rolls her eyes heavenward and calls out:

  
  


“Nat, that you?”

  
  


“Four months out of SHIELD and you're lousy at situational awareness.”

  
  


Sharon groans and pads out of the kitchen and into the living room where her couch is most certainly occupied by her favorite Russian spy. Her eyes widen when she gets ahold of the latest look Natasha's got going on. She's got short, jagged blonde hair now, and some rather intricately and expertly faded fake tats all over her shoulders, peeking out from the tank she's wearing. “I'm undercover at a vegan strip joint,” is all she tells Sharon.

 

She's known Natasha long enough to pick up on the calm in her demeanor that's only coming from the bottle clutched in her fingers. Sharon knows, like many women would, that Natasha standing up in front of the Congressional Oversight Committee and defying them the way she had...there would be consequences for that. "If something were wrong, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

 

Natasha shoots her a wry smirk, tinged with either sadness or bitterness. "No, I wouldn't. But I'd want to." Well, at least she's being honest about the lying. Sharon counts that as an improvement. Wanting to dispel the tension, she gives Natasha another once-over.

  
  


“The look I like, very much. But does that mean you're sporting a bigger bush than I am right now?” Sharon asks her with a small twist of her lips as she drops onto the couch next to Natasha and reaches for the half-empty bottle of vodka. It's still cold, yet it burns as it slides down her throat and into her gut.

  
  


“Hey, don't knock it. And besides the full bush is making a comeback. I'm sure it's particularly popular among the nonagenarian set.” The last is said with a saucy little wink, leaving no doubt in Sharon's mind which particular nonagenarian Natasha had been referencing. She takes another swig from the bottle before Natasha takes it away from her.

  
  


“Yeah, don't think anything's gonna happen there. We barely parted on good terms before we left Fury's stronghold. I mean, I did go see him in the hospital but he was out of it and Sam and I talked instead.” Talking about Steve Rogers was something of a sore spot for Sharon. She'd done her bloody job and while, yes, she'd actually found herself interested in the man himself (seeing him in a distinctly non-Captain America setting had done wonders), but given the situation and her undercover status, she'd done her best to deflect that. Still, they'd gotten to know each other on more honest terms while hiding out from SHIELD/HYDRA.

  
  


The last thing he'd said to her, when she had been in a bathroom getting ready to affix her electrostatic mask so she could sneak into the Triskelion, had been, “ _Just so you know, I asked you out without knowing any of those things about you. Kate, Sharon, they're not that different, just have different job descriptions. See you on the other side_.”

  
  


Natasha snorts and takes a long, steady sip of the vodka. “I'm sure your self-imposed celibacy doesn't have anything to do with looking for Steve in every person you deem good enough to eat,” she deadpans with an elegant arch of her eyebrow.

  
  


“I hate you,” Sharon grouses, kicking at Nat's leg with her foot. She isn't wrong, that's the devil of it. Three weeks ago, Sharon had met this hot blonde paramedic named Clarke while out for a solitary dinner. Looking back, Sharon could admit there had been a lot of things about Clarke that reminded her of Steve. Dammit.

  
  


“Good. Now, let's go get you dressed up. You're going out tonight and you're going to get laid because I'm not dealing with your pathetic sex life any longer.”

  
  


Having Nat there to symbolically hold her hand through it helps, though, and it doesn't take long for them to have an outfit picked out for Sharon. A black bodysuit that barely hugs her shoulders and leaves most of her back bare, a flirty, dark floral skirt that swishes around her upper thighs whenever she moves, and black ankle boots.  She does her hair up in a braided crown and exits the apartment carrying a black leather jacket for when it gets chillier later that night. The place Nat told her about is a twenty minute walk from her place, and Nat had assured her it was fairly popular, so Sharon shouldn't be wanting for potential one-night stands.

  
  


The moon is already heavy and full, dragging low on the horizon, but barely visible over the height of the buildings. Sharon stalks down the busy street, full of people heading out to enjoy the crisp Friday night. It'll be Halloween soon, and Sharon wonders if that was why her skin feels like it is faintly thrumming.

  
  


She spots more than one appreciative glance by the time she's holding her ID up to the bouncer for perusal. He waves her in and she finds herself weaving her way around the tables and the clusters of patrons. The walls are red brick, and covered with a haphazard mix of photographs and colored lights. It sure isn't a swanky place by any measure. Sharon makes a beeline for the bar, wanting to get herself a drink so she could snag one of the few small tables left before the jazz band starts their set.

  
  


Wine in hand, she maneuvers herself to a small space in the booth seat that stretches along the wall. There's a table there and that was all she would need. A cluster of people are at the table in front, chairs turned around so they can face the band, forcing her to squeeze herself in front of a table with a single man in order to get to her seat. Thanks to the height of the tables and the tight quarters, the bare backs of Sharon's upper thigh end up brushing along a muscular forearm. Just that small contact alone sends a flare of warmth rushing through her body and, with her eyes momentarily closed, Sharon is intensely aware of how much time has slowed down but thankfully she manages to not stumble or drop her wineglass, swinging her hips down into the padded seat. Jesus, she's really hard up, isn't she?

  
  


Sharon would like Natasha to know that, no, her situational awareness has not gone to shit, because within a second of sitting down, she realizes she knows the man sitting next to her. But any thoughts of gloating to Natasha are moot because Sharon then realizes the whole night has been a chess game masterminded by Natasha herself, since she'd recommended the very bar she had obviously known Steve Rogers would be hanging out at.

  
  


“Of all the gin joints in all of DC,” Sharon quotes with a wry smile, angling her body to face his.

  
  


“She just had to walk into mine. And she can quote  _Casablanca_. I'm impressed,” Steve says, inclining his head and raising his glass of beer.

  
  


Sharon is intensely glad, at that moment, that she is not predisposed to blushing. “What're you doing here?”

  
  


“Out past my bedtime, you mean?” Steve asks with a straight face, failing spectacularly because the grin he's trying to hide is threatening to turn into a full-blown, cheek-busting beam.

  
  


Sharon only inclines her head in his direction. “Well, I think I did see something about discounted rates for senior citizens on the menu...”

  
  


“Ha, ha," he chuckles dryly, not looking too offended. "But to answer your question, a friend told me this place had good music on the weekends.”

  
  


“Would this 'friend' happen to be Natasha, too?”

  
  


Steve's eyebrows furrow as he stares at her, speechless, before ducking his head with a bemused nod and a faint blush on his cheeks. Interesting.

  
  


“Yeah. You know, she's been after me for months, telling me about all these women she thinks I should ask out.”

  
  


“Well, in that case, we have plenty to commiserate about, because she's been doing the same to me.”

  
  


"Just women?" Steve carefully prods, and all of Sharon's hopes come rushing back because maybe he wants to know if he still has a chance or if he needs to back the fuck off because she definitely wouldn't be interested.

  
  


"No, both women and men. She's been campaigning pretty hard for you, though."

  
  


Steve says nothing to that, hiding his happy expression by raising his glass to his lips.  The jazz band starts up their set after a round of applause from the customers. There are more people in the pub now, getting their drinks and looking around for seats. Sharon almost startles, for entirely different reasons, when Steve bends his head closer until his mouth is an inch away from her ear.

  
  


“You know, it'd probably be more helpful if you moved over to my table. Free up the space for the other patrons.”

  
  


Sharon turns and meets his eyes, barely inches from her own. “Or you could move over to my table. Free up the space for the other patrons," she volleys back with a wink.

  
  


“Well, I can't argue with that.” He grabs ahold of his beer and slides out of the booth seat, nearly smacking her in the face with his ass as he makes his way into the chair across from her.

  
  


Sharon is aware that her mouth is gaping open and closes it before he can see how the show has affected her. Alrighty then. Two can play this game. Sharon shrugs out of her leather jacket, carefully pretending to watch the band as she does so, but in reality, she's cataloging the way Steve's attention drifts over the way the tight bodysuit emphasizes her breasts and her toned muscles.

  
  


The singer begins to croon a haunting refrain and Steve's expression turns serious. He leans forward onto his elbows on the table and waits until she's meeting his eyes. “How you been? Seriously? Sam told me you came to see me at the hospital.” There's nothing in his tone to suggest condemnation, merely a request for understanding.

  
  


Sharon shrugs, toying with the stem of her wineglass. “Made my way into the CIA, passed their qualifications with flying colors. They know who I am, but nowadays that's more an ignominy than something that would get me fast-tracked without merit . I've been keeping my head down, trying to prove myself all over again.”

  
  


“I'm sorry.”

  
  


She shakes her head rather vehemently, seeing the guilt in his eyes. “Don't be. I mean it. I didn't just join you on the run on a whim, Rogers. I did it because I knew something was wrong and my inner cynic proved me right, didn't it? There was no way I was going to stay in an agency that was perverting everything I believed in, no matter how hard I worked to claw myself up through the ranks.”

  
  


Steve nods, running his thumb through the condensation on the outside of his beer glass. “I'm glad you were with me. I know sometimes I was being a little...”

  
  


“Passive aggressive?” Sharon supplies, smiling cutely when Steve shoots her an exasperated look.

  
  


“Yeah, okay I deserved that. You were doing your job, I get that. And I, uh, really appreciate that you didn't want to lead me on when I didn't know who you really were.”

  
  


Sharon doesn't know how to dignify that with a reply, so she just nods sharply and takes another sip of her wine. It's at this point she realizes that for all Natasha had tried to set them up together, Sharon's nascent feelings for Steve Rogers means this night is effectively going nowhere in terms of satisfying her physical needs.

  
  


She reaches into her small purse and closes her hand around a few pill capsules. Tossing them into her mouth, she swallows them dry, even though she already knows that taking them with alcohol won't have an adverse effect on her.

  
  


“It's just some vitamins. I've got B1, B6, some Iron and Zinc. My grandma's a hippie, she's very much into the whole supplement scene.” Sharon tells Steve by way of explanation when she sees his quizzical look. “Not all of us are super-soldiers.”

  
  


An hour flies by as they enjoy several sets  and go through another glass of their respective drinks. The faint alcoholic buzz has Sharon growing bolder and lightly brushing her legs against the denim of Steve's jeans, nearly shivering from the cool air wafting through the bar. They talk about what feels like nearly everything under the sun, laughing at each other's stories until her cheeks hurt.

  
  


The faint cramping in her stomach nearly derails it all. Sharon knows she's not in immediate danger, but it does terrify her how she's let herself get to this point.  Looking at the man across from her, who's finally relaxed his shoulders and allowed himself to enjoy the atmosphere- enough that he's joking with one of the men at the table in front of them...Sharon can't bear to ruin whatever they've got by pushing too fast before she's ready to tell him. And she doesn't want to start something unless he knows. There was only one thing to do until then.

  
  


"Hey." She taps Steve's wrist, waiting until his attention has swung back to her before she tells him as casually as possible, "I'm gonna head to the ladies' and then make a call, be back in ten, okay?"

  
  


"Alright. You want another glass of wine?" He offers magnanimously.

  
  


"Sure. It's the Shiraz, thanks." She leaves her jacket but slips her purse strap across her body as she heads for the back.  She doesn't stop at the women's room, glancing backwards to make sure Steve isn't watching as she continues on towards the back patio. Out in the dark night, with the faint echo of music not loud enough to be heard over the laughter and chatter of the patrons around her, Sharon peers past the fairy lights strung from the trees into the narrow street. There's a few people scattered here and there, some having a smoke. In situations like this, men are easier. She spots her quarry  near the mouth of an alley that probably holds nothing but dumpsters. Not her most dignified moment, but here she is. 

  
  


She mutters an excuse to the bouncer serving as gatekeeper, so he'll recognize her and let her back in when she returns. The man is younger than she is, with the kind of bland appearance that's common among college guys. She slows as she approaches him, trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible. "Are you single?" She asks him directly. Sexual magic can be dangerous, which is why cubis had an inborn ability to discern truth from lie. It's a skill she's abused frequently in her line of work.

  
  


"Uh..." he stammers, getting a good look at her long legs in this outfit. "Yeah, du...I mean, yes!" He's shocked and eager, just what she needs.

  
  


"It's Friday night and I'm lonely. Wanna make out?" 

  
  


"Sure?"

  
  


She has his back up against the brick wall just inside the alley and her mouth on his in no time. The poor bastard doesn't know how to kiss, but that's alright. Sharon can rock his world without actually unzipping his jeans. She rubs herself up against his front, feeling him grow half hard in a matter of seconds. Yeah, she won't be full tonight, but she can take the edge off in no time at all. She squashes the sense of guilt at doing this when she would really rather it be Steve. 

  
  


"Come on," she tells the guy, flipping them around so he could press her against the wall. "Jesus, I-I don't have a condom," he pants. His breath smells of stale beer and cigarettes. 

  
  


"We don't need them. Let's grind like this, it'll be so naughty to come like this," she encourages him. She can feel the need rising inside her, the hunger opening its jaws. Her vision begins to shift, allowing her to become more sensitive to her partner's own need, quickly spiraling out of control. All that energy, rising to the surface, ready for her. The thing is, she doesn't need to get off, she doesn't need to make herself pretend she's actually attracted to him. There's some arousal there, but most of it is from being near Steve Rogers and the unavoidable pleasure of sexual contact while grinding herself along the seam of this stranger's pants.  

  
  


His eyes close, and his hips start to buck out of control. "Are you close, baby?" he asks her and Sharon resists the urge to roll her eyes. She's been gone long enough, she decides, and slams her mouth over the man's, making the contact with his  _prana_  and drawing it out. It fills her lungs, flooding her blood and her nervous system before reaching her brain, resulting in a wave of feel-good hormones. 

  
  


"Oh god, oh Jesus," he's blabbing like a mantra. He didn't actually come, she's just taken enough out of him that it makes him weaker and his erection flagged. No need for him to know the difference. Sharon is probably being too abrupt as she removes his hands from underneath her skirt and shoves him away. It's not enough to satisfy her, mostly because she's not allowing herself to really get everything she can out of the experience, but it'll tide her over for a few days. She busies herself with reapplying her lip balm and tries to fan the small flush of her skin, checking to make sure the back of her outfit wasn't dirty or torn.

  
  


"Uh, can I maybe get your number? That was seriously so hot-" her erstwhile partner is saying behind her.

  
  


"No." Sharon doesn't even glance backwards at him. "So fucking inconvenient," she mutters to herself as she exits the alley, only to pull up short at the sight of Steve Rogers standing right there, hands in his jacket pocket, an inscrutable expression on his face.

  
  


"You fucking tease, you fucking bi-" the man curses as he exits the alley behind her, only to fall silent as he spots Steve's downright murderous glare.

  
  


"Leave, now, while you still can," Steve all but growls at him.  Her erstwhile partner lets out a small whimper and books it down the street, leaving Sharon alone with what a colossal fuck-up she is.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

They stand there in a strained silence, Sharon staring at anything that's not Steve, keenly aware of his eyes on her, studying her for an explanation. "How about I walk you home?" he asks, and for a moment Sharon hates him for not betraying a single hint of what he's thinking.

  


"There's no need," she tells him tersely, shaking her head and blinking away tears. "I'm going to grab my jacket and pay the tab." She stalks past him and isn't sure if she's disappointed that he doesn't try to stop her. "I know I've fucked everything up," she murmurs, half to herself.

  


The fresh glass of wine is sitting there at their table and Sharon doesn't give a shit what kind of attention she attracts when she picks it up and downs it in two gulps before grabbing her jacket and heading for the bar to pay both their tabs. The least she can do, not that it'll come remotely close enough to an explanation or an apology. Not that she should apologize, since her and Steve aren't officially anything. But all the same, her heart hurts with the knowledge that they'll never be anything more than...fuck, she doesn't even know what they are now.

  


Shoving the receipt into her jacket, she stalks out the front door instead of the back where Steve's waiting. Sharon's never been one to shirk away from anything, but she's going to be downright chicken right now and avoid him. She makes it a block and half away with nothing but the chaotic din of her thoughts to keep her company before she becomes aware of another set of footsteps falling in tandem with hers. Her pride's already in tatters, she doesn't need this on top of it all. 

  


"I told you I'd walk you home," Steve says. Sharon doesn't even look back at him, continuing along the street in a rush.

  


"And I told you not to bother."

  


They keep walking for another minute before Steve opens his mouth again.

  


“Back in the war,” he begins, “I met a lot of different people. And I don't mean different as in 'they weren't from New York'. I mean different as in they weren't what the dictionary would define as human. Some, I know, label themselves mutants nowadays. Some others, I'm not so sure.”

  


Sharon starts to get the prickly sense she knows exactly where this conversation is going, but she can't seem to focus on anything but the inevitability it's leading to.

  


“Point is, there was this one da- this one woman in the USO tour. She sometimes seemed real tired and I used to worry because I spent the first quarter century of my life sick. But she always brushed it off, saying she had pills for that kind of stuff. Vitamins. Those were new, back then. But one night, I got in the middle of her and a bad situation with a Sergeant that wasn't being so nice. When I came upon them, I could've sworn she was kinda...glowing? And there was something passing between their mouths. But then the man started getting mean, wantin' more than she was willing to give, so I had to drag him off.” It's almost endearing how he slides further into his thicker Brooklyn accent whenever he's reminiscing. 

  


They pause near a canopy of trees on their street and Sharon is carefully not looking at Steve, too petrified of what she might hear next. So she says nothing. He's right next to her now, close enough that his voice surrounds her even in the spacious silence of the night. “I asked her what she was.  She did her best to explain, and I didn't begrudge her trying to survive and do her job, even if it took her into the middle of a war on the other side of the world. I guess I'm telling you this because I'm hoping that you'd trust me enough to tell me if the same vitamins and what I just saw was more than just coincidence.”

  


Sharon almost doesn't trust her voice when she opens her mouth. “Was it just tonight?"

  


There's a long exhale. “No. There's the way you close your eyes when you're around people sometimes, as if you need to center yourself. There's the little comments Nat has been making about whether or not I'd accept people who were different from the norm in...”

  


“Less acceptable ways?” Is the best way Sharon can think to phrase it. It's one thing to be a super-soldier, or to shoot lasers from your eyes, it's another to feed off of sexual energy.

  


“Sharon...”

  


She spins around to face him and nearly loses her will at how  _open_  Steve looks right now, how beseeching. “I... _yes_. I'm like my mother and grandmother. The common term is 'succubus', but I prefer to just use 'cubus'.” Just saying the words, even in a rapid rush, leaves her light-headed and her heart pounding.

  


The truth is this: Sharon has been nursing some pathetically deep feelings for Steve ever since she started living down the hall from him. It's like fate has it out for her...either that, or she's a masochist. She can count on the fingers of one hand how many people in her life she's told about her nature. Just making a clean breast of it like this feels so much more terrifying vulnerable than when Natasha had sussed out that Sharon was different than most people.

  


“Answer me something: do you at least consider me a friend?”

  


“Yes.”  Her response is immediate.

  


“Okay. Then would you trust me when I said I was okay with what you are? That I didn't think it was anything to be ashamed of?”

  


Sharon tears her eyes away, trying to focus on anything but the man in front of her. The bark on the nearby tree, the chipped paint on the house nearest them. “I would want to, but there's a voice at the back of my head that wants to be suspicious because it'll be safer that way.” Her and Natasha seem to have something more in common.

  


Steve begins pacing, hands now stuffed in his jacket pockets. “Was I wrong to think there's something between us? Did I just mess up your chances of feeding tonight because I'm not an option? Tell me if I'm wrong, Sharon. Please.” 

  


That throws her for a loop. They may not have started anything yet, but even men nowadays would react negatively to a woman they were interested in having sex (or something remotely stimulating it) with other people. That was an occupational hazard of being cubi- the sexual nature of her being often provoked jealousy and suspicion. Well, not that the male of the species has had much to worry about.  Maybe that's why there are so few of her kind nowadays: too many have been killed off. At any rate, Sharon certainly hadn't been expecting Steve to be more upset that she didn't feel like she could go to him for what she needed. 

  


She shrugs. “Maybe I'm just messed up about seeing people as long-term relationships. And Steve, I really like you. That's kind of the problem.”  Steve reaches out for her hand in mid-air, intertwining their fingers and tugging her into the solid wall of his body. Sharon melts into the hug, not realizing how much she had needed one, pressing her cheek against the line of Steve's jacket, over his chest. Even through the cloth, she can feel the rumble of his voice.

  


“I want _you_ , and I don't want to waste any more time not saying it. I wanted you when you were Kate. I wanted you more when you were Sharon, standing there over the sink putting that wig on. I want you for everything you are, not just because of it or in spite of it.” The naked admission has her letting out a shaky sigh and closing her eyes. His embrace tightens and suddenly Sharon wants nothing more than to stay here forever.

  


It takes more strength than she expects to raise her head away from his chest and meet his eyes. His pupils are dilated, but he looks as earnest as she's ever seen him. No matter, she already knows everything he had just said was the honest, unvarnished truth. Maybe it's just the last glass of wine she'd just downed, but her head feels like it's swimming as she raises up onto her tippity toes and presses her lips to his.

  


They're soft, so unbelievably soft, though surrounded by just enough rough male skin to excite her. She knows her lips are still slightly sticky from the lipgloss, but Steve doesn't seem to be complaining as he angles his head and slants his lips over hers with answering intensity.

  


And boy, oh boy, can he kiss. Sharon's calves are beginning to burn faintly from the effort of keeping herself up as Steve's tongue sweeps confidently into her mouth. Curving a hand up around the back of her head, she pulls away and takes a deep breath of the late-night autumn air. Blood roars in her ears as she tells him, “Let's go upstairs.”

  


Steve nods, reaching up to brush a loose lock of blonde hair away from her face. “Yours or mine?” Just the graze of his fingers over the back of her ear has Sharon shivering. His reaction is palpable- lips parting and chest rising and falling slowly from the careful breath he has to take then. 

  


“Yours.” She wants to mark his space. She wants to make it so he can't step in his apartment without seeing her, hearing her, tasting her.

  


Minutes later, she stands there on shaky legs in the middle of his living room as Steve closes the door with a decisive 'click' behind him. He pauses for a moment, simply watching her, his eyes dark with desire. Sharon feels like prey caught in a snare, and from the determined set of Steve's face, he's planning out exactly how he's going to breach her defenses and take her apart inch by glorious inch.

 

Sharon doesn't give a damn if she's being a rude guest, she pulls the strap of her purse over her head and tosses it, along with her jacket, over onto the nearest chair. They hit the mark but don't stay, sliding over onto the floor with a faint thunk. Not that she's turning to look, not when Steve is striding towards her, brows furrowed with single-minded purpose. Then his mouth is on hers again. 

  


This is no tentative meeting of lips, this is months and months of pent up longing. Her hands stroke over the curves and dips of Steve's shoulders and biceps, enjoying the barely concealed strength stretching out the thin material of his shirt. This time, when he splays his hands across her back, there is no clothing between the warmth of their skin. Sharon is embarrassed with the force of her reaction when Steve lightly scrapes his fingernails over her back, making her pull away from his lips with a gasp and a small shiver. Tiny pinpricks of pleasure race down her spine, turning her earlier arousal into something heavy and very present between her thighs.

  


She watches him through half-lidded eyes, almost blushing from the intensity of his scrutiny as he catalogues her every reaction. Steve starts to walk them back towards the couch. With each step, one denim-clad thigh presses in between hers, teasing her pubis with brief, but desperately wanted contact. Sharon wants to rub against him like a cat in heat, which is an apt descriptor for her state right now.

  


Gripping the back of his neck, she captures his lips with hers for one more deep kiss before her own lips melt into a smirk. Curling one foot around the inside of his calf, she knocks Steve off balance, shoving him down onto the couch. At the loud, ominous creak the furniture gives under his sudden weight, a small bubble of laughter spills out of her throat. He holds himself absolutely, and when the couch doesn't collapse entirely, he relaxes into the cushions and raises his eyebrows up at her.

  


"If I had known this was gonna result in the destruction of furniture, I would've suggested your place.”

  


"Sorry, I don't have a 'super soldier' rider on my renters insurance," she retorts, bracing her hands on his thighs as she lowers herself to the floor before his spread legs. Steve seems to have frozen in place, scarcely allowing himself to breathe as he anticipates her next move. She reaches for his belt, flicking the metal prong out of its hole on the strap. Steve shakes himself out of his stupor then, sounding strangled as he grabs at her hands.

  


"Sharon...you don't have to-"

  


"Sh," she shushes him. The rasp of the zipper is loud in the sudden quiet of the living room. Her fingers are gentle as they curl around Steve's cock and pull it out into the open air. He's not long, but he's _thick_ and just imagining that splintering her open has her clenching with anticipation.

  


She gives the shaft several steady pumps, feeling it harden further in her hand and making the foreskin slide down, revealing the bulbous head. It's a hypnotizing sight, drawing her closer. Sharon bends down and glides her tongue up the underside of the shaft, then again and again, bathing it with her saliva, avoiding the head until Steve is downright squirming on the couch.

  


Now she closes her teeth lightly over the head, and the reaction is sudden but slow in unfolding. Steve hisses and carefully bucks his hips, clutching her arms in warning. She looks up the line of his body until she meets his eyes, laving the exposed tip with her tongue, darting it underneath the foreskin, making his eyes go glassy and unfocused as he gasps and shudders.

  


There's a faint blush staining his cheeks and Sharon doesn't know why she finds that so endearing, but she does. Her hair is becoming a loose mess thanks to Steve threading his fingers through the braids. Her senses are already shifting and she can _feel_ him. Can feel his desire, the painful, beautiful edge of arousal rocking higher and higher with each pass of her mouth.

  


When Steve's cock is well coated, she decides to give him a measure of mercy and close her lips over the head, suckling lightly until his thighs are tensing underneath her hands. Here Sharon begins bobbing her head up and down, gradually taking more and more of him into her mouth. She squeezes her thighs together, wishing she could grind against something. What's far more gratifying are the quivering moans escaping his lips. 

  


He starts to lose control, thrusting upwards, and that's what warns her that he's coming even before he's tapping her shoulder and muttering, “Sharon, Sharon...” She redoubles her efforts, tasting salt on her tongue, and is rewarded by her name becoming a litany above her. She does her best to swallow, but some of the viscous liquid dribbles out of her mouth, pooling at the base of his cock. After a few more slow passes, she disengages with a deep inhale, taking stock of the state she's left Steve in.

  


He's still half-hard. "Takes more than one to get it to go down," he tells her, somewhat abashedly.

  


“Well, that's good, because I'm far from done right now,” she lets out with a breathless chuckle. She often gets a power trip when she goes down on her partners and like many things she's applied herself to in her life, Sharon aims to be damn good at giving head.

  


“C'mere.” He's tugging her up into his lap and Sharon goes readily, straddling his thighs inches away from his exposed erection. Steve doesn't shy away from kissing her thoroughly after she's had her mouth on him, which gives him mega points in her book. She gasps when he practically rips her top down over her shoulders, exposing her breasts to his gaze.

  


“Steve...”

  


All she can do is hold herself up and grab onto his arms as he bends his head and captures her left nipple in his mouth. Each pull, each suckle has her fidgeting in mid-air, too far from anything that would give her a tiny measure of satisfaction. But his hands are there, pushing up her skirt and fondling her ass below the hem of her bodysuit.

  


Sharon, always impatient, shoves the bodysuit down off her arms and reaches behind her for the clasp to her skirt. Steve catches on quick, helping her slide both pieces of clothing down over her hips, then off her legs. Now that she's left naked while Steve is still mostly clothed, Sharon realizes how unfair this is. “Off,” she orders, reaching for his long-sleeved shirt, which he surrenders without argument.

  


“Oh,” she marvels in amazement, “you've got hair on your chest.” It doesn't seem the least bit weird to reach out and run her fingers over the soft pelt, even when her distraction gives Steve the opportunity to pull her closer.

  


“Satisfied I'm a real man?” He asks, sounding more than a little sardonic as he angles his head so he can lightly nip on the skin where her shoulder meets her neck. Sharon jerks in his hold, finding herself on top of his erection, which feels like it's at full strength again. The gratification she gets at rubbing her clit along the shaft makes her mind skitter until it's brought right back down to earth with the rough drag of Steve's teeth right below her jawline.

  


“I've always known you were a real man,” she moans.

  


“I'm gonna put my mouth on your pussy,” he tells her, and her mind fragments again.

  


Before she knows it, Steve's on the floor next to the couch and she's lowering one knee onto the short-haired rug, the other onto the exposed hardwood floor. Her fingers, she digs into the coffee table and the couch cushion nearest her as if they would be enough to give her purchase.  Her face feels unbearably hot as she starts a slow roll with her hips to the rhythm of his tongue. Steve traces the tip along the folds of her labia, ducking down to press as far inside her as he can get, nose nudging her clit. Those big, wonderful hands of his are currently clutching her ass and encouraging her motions.

  


Sharon's never been a shy woman, but when Steve lets out a happy groan against her cunt, the vibrations on her clit send a delicious lassitude flooding through her body, making her even bolder. She lets more of her weight drop down onto his face, gasping and jerking at the rougher texture of his bristles against her sensitive skin. That tongue- that maddening tongue...it keeps curling upwards and she keeps moving with the wet, wriggling muscle, riding it in earnest. Wanting the contact with her clit but squirming away from the intensity of the pleasure.  Steve just holds her closer and digs in like a man dying of thirst. Between the rasp of his tongue and the wet noises breaking the relative silence of the room...Sharon's rapidly hurtling towards a climax. She tries to focus on the details of the apartment, on the stack of books across the room in their...in their places on the booksh...the booksh...

  


She looks down and their eyes meet. He's daring her to keep watching what he's doing to her. Especially when he slides two fingers up into her cunt. That's when his mouth closes around her clit, giving her no escape as he begins to apply suction. Her reaction is immediate, back arching as lightning races along her spine and her limbs. She comes hard, fucking his face as the tremors crest for several glorious seconds before they fade.

  


"I could do that for hours," he tells her with only a faint wheeze when he's still scant inches from her vulva.

  


"Don't tempt me," she groans, legs shaking a fraction as she crawls backwards until she's sitting on his chest. Scarcely has she met his eyes or taken in the way the skin around his mouth glistens before she's flying in the air, borne up by Steve's arms and his apparent ease in getting to his feet with her added weight. 

  


"Bed?" He asks.

  


"Bed," she nods.

  


Steve almost makes it to the hallway before he stops short. "Shit, rubbers. I have some in my wallet." He glances around before spotting his jacket on the kitchen counter. "One sec." He walks them across the room and deposits her butt onto the counter.

  


"Condoms in your wallet? Someone was optimistic," she drawls with the teasing arch of one eyebrow. 

  


"Well, Captain America was made a honorary boy scout..."

  


"Heaven forbid you be unprepared for any eventuality." He locates the foil wrapper and before he can stick it between his lips and gather her back into his arms, Sharon is placing a hand on his bicep. She wants him. She wants him _now_.

  


"Steve?"

  


"Hm?"

  


"Maybe you should suit up right now."

  


They don't even make it into his bedroom, and that's mostly Sharon's fault. Though if Steve tries to bring that up later, she's totally going to point out his lack of self control when she nibbled on his ear. She ends up slammed against the wall with a yelp, making a framed art picture rattle. Now that she's (almost literally) between a rock and a hard place, Sharon doesn't want to wait. Keeping one arm around Steve's shoulders, she reaches down and finds his cock, pressing the head against where she's open and wanting.

  


"Steve," she sighs, watching his face as he starts to sink into her. He holds her up so effortlessly, his mouth drifting open in wonderment, his eyelashes long and too damn pretty as they flutter shut. She can feel every hitch in his breath, an inch from her cheek, as he finally buries himself up to the hilt.

  


Sharon gives her hips an experimental wiggle, grinning when Steve bites out an inaudible expletive, opening his eyes.

  


“More,” she demands.

  


He's watching her, jaw clenching and nostrils flaring as he proceeds to fuck her into the wall pausing to rotate his hips on every upstroke, grinding her clit and making her see stars.

  


“Yes, yes,” she chants. Everything's building again, it's barely been minutes since her first orgasm and she can feel the next one cresting. She hears Steve's next words barely an inch away from her ear, full of amazement.

  


“You. You're glowing.”

  


Most humans don't see it, the part of her that's lighting up from the presence of sexual energy. She doesn't know what it means that Steve can. But just the act of trusting him like this erodes the walls she's built around her heart. It's tricky when you're reliant on sex to live, and you love it, but love itself you are resistant to because you just never expect it to be returned in kind.

  


Every thrust shatters her against the hard edge of the wall. Sharon circles her hips, bearing down on Steve's cock, feeling the sheen of sweat sticking between their bodies, the wet hair.

  


The picture falls down with a loud clatter from the force of Steve's thrusts but she's so. goddamn. close. She rocks her hips in concert with his motions, higher and higher, tighter and tighter.

  


“Take from me.” The order almost doesn't register with her.

  


“Huh?” She opens her eyes and meets the blue of his, so close to her face it's as if he can see right into her.

  


“Feed off me, now.” Oh god, she wants nothing more, but just when she's being offered what she truly wants, she balks. “Sharon, do it.”

  


The last vestige of her self-control crumbles and Sharon slants her lips over his, seeking. It's basically a sixth sense, the awareness of brushing against Steve's sexual energy, and _jesus christ_ there is so much of it, Sharon breathes it in, drawing it from his body, from head to toe. It's the first true satisfaction she's had in months and it's utterly wanted, so she drinks deeply, until she feels him grow weak, though his hips are still stuttering roughly against hers.

  


Everything is sensitized to the point she's like a wild creature thrashing against him, twisting her hips until the tension breaks and her body goes supernova. Her muscles are trembling even as she registers the world tilting underneath her as Steve collapses onto his knees on the hallway floor.

  


“Oh, I...I took too much, I'm sorry-” she rushes to explain, her right ankle twinging painfully at the angle it's bent between her thigh and the floor. Steve's head is bowed, his hair brushing against her jaw as he shakes it, and she can't read his expression.

 

“No, no it's not that. I don't want you to stop. I-” the last sentence escapes him in a rush and he doesn't seem able to articulate what he wants.

 

Sharon's mind goes blank for a second. He can't be implying what she thinks he's implying? That's...she takes a deep breath as she remembers some of her deepest fantasies. Her muscles protest as she pushes herself up onto her feet and guides him to the bed. Steve stumbles but goes readily, stretching out on the mattress and watching her steadily.

 

She swings her leg up onto the bed, straddling him. Since she's already fed, her nerve endings are alight and sensitized, and she's certainly coursing with a massive wave of feel-good hormones. Sharon looks down at Steve, at the vulnerable slant of his face, the way he seems to be asking something of her even as he raises his hands up to help her settle herself.

 

Sharon holds her breath as she sinks back down onto his cock, which is not quite hard enough after she's fed, but that's no matter. “No, keep your hands here,” she tells him, gripping his wrists as she presses his arms down into the sheets on either side of his head. “It's okay, I'll take care of you.”

 

She grinds down first, finding the connection with her earlier arousal. Yep, still there, she can build it all up again. Then she starts a low, rocking motion that squeezes Steve's cock with every circle of her hips. All the while, she watches his face, watches the play of emotion...the way he tries to school his expression before twitching and giving in with a flutter of his eyelashes. He tries to resist, she can see the struggle play itself out on his face, that trademark Steve Rogers mulishness, constantly fighting the world. But then it breaks.  Underneath her hold, his hands clench then finally relax. Sharon nearly shudders at the sense of power Steve's surrender gives her. Her lovers, especially the men, never trust her with this, and after everything they've been through, it does her in that Steve would first trust her with his life and then now with this. It's so heady...so...

 

She fucks him, moving over him, against him, in whatever rhythm pleases her, feeling the gradual tightening of her inner muscles around his now painfully erect cock.

 

“Sharon,” he whimpers brokenly, breath puffing against the curtain of her hair, twisting his hips up to meet her canting motion, shaking from the effort. For all his super-soldier serum, this is the power she has over him. Sharon dots his cheekbone and lips with butterfly kisses, backing away far enough to gasp as her thigh and back muscles tense. But this is about him first.

 

“Let go,” she tells him, holding the eye contact. “I want you to come right now.”

 

Steve lets out a noisy gasp, bucking his hips up into her, looking pained for several seconds. Watching the pleasure wash over his face, listening to the moans escaping his lips, Sharon finds herself overwhelmed by the strength of her emotions. She captures his lips with hers- drugging kisses that make her clench painfully down upon him.

 

 _Just one more time_ , she tells herself, pulling away and arching her back as she slides her knees lower around his hips and changes the angle of her thrusts. Steve's still shaking from his orgasm underneath her, but he still reaches up and palms her breasts. Their bodies are even sweatier right now, their skin sticking uncomfortably as she reaches down to roughly rub at her clit with a finger. She scarcely needs to do that five times before she's spasming against him, around him for a third time. 

 

"Oh, fuck. Oh fuck, jesus."

 

She's aware Steve's talking, but frankly, she couldn't tell you what he's saying, that's how far gone she is.  Slowly, she comes back down, dimly aware that she's being moved. It's almost like an out-of-body moment, but she can tell Steve is rolling the both of them onto their sides until they're facing each other. She can feel his breath on her face, the small tingle when he brushes her damp hair away from her forehead. Maybe tomorrow she'll be ashamed of the way she burrows closer, tucking her cheek in against his neck. His hands move around, caressing up and down her back, making her shiver.

 

“That was...” he begins to murmur.

 

“About time,” Sharon finishes. Between the alcohol leaving her system and the satisfaction, she could sleep for years.

 

"Yeah." He's reaching down between their bodies, disposing of the condom. She registers his absence before he's back there on the bed, pulling the covers up around their shoulders and holding her close. "Better now?" he asks, pressing his lips to her temple.

 

"Much. Usually I'm better about making sure I'm fed, but..."  This man has breached her defenses and now Sharon feels little shame in being so honest. "I really liked you."

 

"Right back at ya," he mumbles, breath deepening against her cheek. The wiry hairs on his legs abrade her smooth skin as she squirms in an effort to get comfy. It's easy to hide yourself away from the world, to deny yourself the things you truly want. Sharon had feared that telling Steve the truth would only end up in heartache, and it was a balm on her mind that he had seen her for what she was and accepted it. Maybe people knew what they were saying when they said you were your worst enemy. It's something of a revelation to realize that perhaps for Steve, this had been much of the same thing. Always reaching, always struggling, always with the brutal weight of the authority conferred to him by 'Captain America'. To let go must be its own kind of blessing.

 

"Imma take you out to breakfast in the morning, 'kay?" she tells him as the darkness blankets her mind. 

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Yep," she yawns. "Best waffles in the city..." With that last thought, she's gone.

 

"Sounds heavenly. I'd like to go there with you."

 

 

 

 


End file.
